


A Very Punk Rock Christmas

by skeletonsmama



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Punk, Christmas, Drabble Collection, Ficlet, M/M, mostly fluff i think (hope), their band is called the buttonhole scumbags btw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonsmama/pseuds/skeletonsmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>25 days of christmas for the boys in the buttonhole scumbags</p><p>An advent calendar prompt collection</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mistletoe & Hot Chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> for the advent fic thingy floating around on tumblr. most likely varying chapter lengths and/or grouped prompts because I don't have full time internet access. enjoy u//u
> 
> as always, for erica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for non-con kissing b/c of mistletoe!!

 

  1. **Mistletoe**




 

There’s a bunch of mistletoe hanging right over Enjolras’s spot, the exact spot Grantaire goes over to annoy him halfway through the third song and Grantaire’s probably going to kill Courfeyrac at some point, because who else.

He doesn’t see it until he’s already there, up in Enjolras’s space, shouting into the mic right along with him. He thinks he can here Bahorel sniggering behind him on the drums, but that probably his imagination considering  that he’s got Enjolras screaming next to his ear and the speakers pulsing, loud and heavy. He catches Eponine’s eye at the back of the crowd though, and she’s definitely laughing.

It’s nearly back to the chorus, where Grantaire would fuck off and go back to his own mic for the rest of the song. But he would never back down from a challenge, so as Enjolras lets out the first words of the chorus, _will you stand among the broken/with their anxious beats of heart_ , he steps backwards only to swing his guitar around to his back. Enjolras stops mid lyric as he grabs his face and kisses him for all his worth, only pausing when Bahorel has the _audacity_ to throw one of his drumsticks at them.

“Get a fucking room, we’re playing a show here!”

Grantaire flips him off, still firmly attached to Enjolras. Courfeyrac finishes off the song with backing vocals and the crowd catcalls and whistles as the kiss goes on, descending into hurried hands and delicious little sounds Enjolras is making as Grantaire’s tongue drags lazily in and out of his mouth.

He looks embarrassed when they pull apart, flushing red that has nothing to do with the heat of stage lights.

"This, uh, this next one's called Riot Riot Revolution."

Bahorel launches them into the song with no preamble and Grantaire grins wide for the rest of the night.

 

  1. **Hot Chocolate**




  
  


Tradition states that Combeferre makes them hot chocolate with a generous splash of whiskey for all of them post every winter show. Tonight’s no exception, each of their hands wrapped around the cheap paper cups they keep for times like this. They’re (they being the Buttonhole Scumbags and whoever else tagged along to the gig) sitting sprawled between in and out of the van's open back doors, diligently ignoring the cold. With a warm cup in your hands and mostly leather on your arms, though,  it was more of  a question of who was really feeling it.

Grantaire’s head is pillowed against Enjolras’s thigh, asleep across the mattress tucked into the back. Fair enough, they’d been up until at least 3 the night before drinking. Full nights of rest were a foreign concept as they toured and Enjolras was envious of Grantaire as he curled in on himself, huffing against his leg.

No one looks twice at them; sleeping on top of each other was par of the course, even if it happened more between other members of the band than it did Enjolras and Grantaire.  It wasn’t because there was _history_ or _awkwardness_ or anything like that-- no, Courfeyrac would get that well and truly sorted before it blew up. Last time anything similar had happened _(‘05, some hole-in-the-wall pub in a random city in the middle of america, before Grantaire and Bahorel, before they were even serious about anything_ ) it hadn’t been pretty and there was no chance in hell it was going to happen again.

No, Enjolras just tended to keep to himself. Onstage was different, adrenaline high in his bloodstream and music thrumming through his very core, onstage he was someone else, someone who’d made out with half of his band members as a fuck-you to any homophobic heckling they got.

It didn’t happen as often anymore, but not as often wasn’t never.

Tonight, for instance.

Shrugging it off, Enjolras downed the rest of his hot chocolate and laid out beside Grantaire to sleep. Grantaire groaned at the loss of warmth, rolling over until they were practically nose to nose with arms flung everywhere, pulling him close.

Enjolras got the distinct impression that Grantaire was not as asleep as he was making out to be.

Either way, they ‘slept’ on, the chatter around them eventually dying down as their friends either left or nodded off themselves.

 


	2. Snow & Candy Canes

 

**3.Snow**

There’s white flakes drifting down as they leave Bahorel and Grantaire’s garage where they practice.

Jehan and Enjolras are inappropriately dressed by miles, but too lost in conversation bouncing new lyrics back and forth to care. Jehan scribbles them down as Enjolras orates. They usually (not always -- the one time in Chicago, back of a rusty white van and memories hazy with cigarette smoke -- but that’s another story) worked that way, worked until they had pages and pages of disjointed lyrics, ready to be polished and tweaked only to rough them right up again, into broken verses leading to mutilated chorus’s.

They weren’t there to sound pretty; they were there to make people fucking listen. Most of the band agreed with the philosophy, to some degree at least.

The exception that proved the rule himself jogs to catch up with the pair, unwrapping the scarf from his neck. 

“Both of you are fucking idiots. Especially you, Jehan, you remember what happened last time it fucking snowed. Take this,” he shoved the scarf at Jehan. “And both of you, come back to the house and rug up. Phenomia is not as punk as you’d like to think.”

Grantaire had to all but drag them back inside, ignoring their protests and depositing each of them on top of a heating duct.

“You’re lucky we have heating this month--thank Bahorel on your way out, yeah-- but keep your arse’s down until it’s not the beginnings of a blizzard again, lest anyone have my head.”

“That was not the beginnings of a blizzard and-- you let Feuilly and Courfeyrac leave.” Enjolras had to admit the hot air was nice on his numb fingers, but that didn’t make his point any less valid.

“Yes, because they were sensible and wore a fucking coat for chrissake. Not to mention they drove, in _cars_ with _heating_.”

There’s no arguing after that, and while Jehan goes home, dutifully picked up by someone who’s only probably Montparnasse in a non-descript white car, Enjolras spends the night on the couch.

 

**4.Candy Canes**

If Grantaire knew mistletoe kisses would lead to making out like teenagers backstage he would have done it years ago.

Enjolras was currently licking his way into Grantaire's mouth, tongue running along his teeth in an action Grantaire couldn't exactly say he enjoyed a great deal.

Enjolras pulled back suddenly.

"Who gave you candy canes?"

Grantaire laughed at his confusion, blowing hot minty breath over his face.

"Joly. Christmas cheer and all that shit. God knows he'll probably wrap your mic stand in tinsel again; that is, if he ends up coming to see us." 

Enjolras makes a face at the thought and Grantaire leans forward to kiss him, only to be forced to a cheek.

"We should finish getting ready. We go up in 20." Enjolras says, as if they never cut it razor fine when it comes to getting on stage punctually. As if either of them actually gave two fucks about a shitty show in a shitty pub playing so maybe people would be their shitty cd's and come back.

Well, maybe Enjolras did.

"Right, sure fucking thing, angel cakes." Grantaire mutters to empty air.

***

They don't talk again until they're halfway through the third song, Grantaire going through his regular routines. The mistletoe is following them venue to venue, and when he goes in to repeat the actions of the previous show Enjolras doesn't take the bait.

Instead he grips him by the arm, pulling him away from the mic as Bahorel enters his solo.

"What the fuck do you think you're playing at? Stay in your fucking spot and don't come here again."

"What is your fucking problem!? Fucking hell Enjolras, I'll stay pissed off back to my corner then." 

The smirk he plasters on as he saunters back is nothing but fake fake fake, but the venomous glare he shoots back everytime Enjolras dares look over is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowow sorry for the lateness but there was camp things. Im nearly caught up so more tomorrow yay!!!!


	3. Christmas Tree & an Angel

**5.Christmas Tree**

Within a week Grantaire spots several christmas trees amongst them. There’s Joly and Musichetta’s, big, impeccably decorated and practically overflowing with gifts underneath already. It takes up half the living room in their small, shared (for now) apartment and Grantaire just huffs as he walks around it to get to the kitchen.

“Bah, humbug. I come bearing alcohol, I know you love me.”

Musichetta takes the bottle of wine with a smile. “How good of you, cheap wine to match an even cheaper meal. Sit down, sit down, it’s been _far_ too long since we had a good catch-up.”

“Yeah, because neither of you little  shits bothered coming to any of the fucking gigs lately.”

Joly tutted from the kitchen, waving his spatula about. It was quite a sight, actually, especially considering he was wearing a christmas apron and purple scrubs. “Don’t need to go to the shows to keep up with all the gossip, though. You and Enjolras?”

“Can we not…”

“Of course we don’t have to. Just know we’d like you too, very very much. No pressure.”

Grantaire grumbled and swore he was never coming dinner with those to alone again.

***

Jehan was a darling, really. The black miniature tree on the dashboard of the van added a much needed feeling of festivity amongst them, despite the, uh--

“Are those skulls?”

He replies from where his head is nearly literally buried in a book. “Yes.”

“And a merry christmas to your poor souls too.”

***

One of them, (Courfeyrac, always Courfeyrac), managed to hide every item of clothing they’d typically wear for a show and replaced them all with hideous holiday t-shirts.

Enjolras grabs a green one, with a singing red christmas tree printed on the front. His uses his vest to hide it best he can, but a smiling emoticon face still peeks out every time he raises his arms over his head.

Grantaire’s t-shirt is a dick. _Have a happy holiday!!_ the front declares, sparkled and disgusting, _not u_ the back says. Grantaire ditches the vest and plays with his back to Enjolras for as much as he can get away with.

He never said he was above pettiness.

  
  


**6.Angel**

Enjolras is an angel. Metaphorically, at least. Proved even more so that his nickname sounds like Ange, which means Angel in french. Joly said so, and Joly did french in high school, so Grantaire can go with that. He’s a little drunk right now, though, and he’s not sure he can really appreciate as much as if he were sober.

“Hey, uh, Feuilly! Printer, I need a printer. You have a printer, right? It’s for the greater good, trust me.”

“Grantaire last time I let you use it you printed seven pages of different dick pics.”

“And?”

Bahorel snorts from his place in the corner of the room. There’s people everywhere, considering Feuilly was throwing a party or something like that. It was his birthday, wasn’t it? Close enough, either way, but all that mattered now was that Grantaire got to a printer. He had the _perfect_ picture and everything.

“You’ll appreciate when you see what I’m going to do. Seriously man, just point me to your printer and list off the password, you’ll love it.”

With a long suffering sigh Feuilly led him down the hall, dodging people left and right while greeting them at the same time.

“Password’s-- oh fuck I _forgot_ \-- password is bahorelsbigdick, o’s and i’s are numbers.” Feuilly’s as red as his hair when he leaves.

Grantaire makes good use of the printer.

***

“Courfeyrac, I know this was you. Take it down or I swear to god--”

“What are you yelling about now, Enjolras? I don’t remember any...oh. _Oooh._ ”

“Oh? That’s all you’ve got to say? _Oh?_ ”

“Come on E, it’s pretty funny.”

Enjolras didn’t appreciate the sentiment. On top of the tree in Feuilly’s living room was a picture of him, plastered on the mock angel that was already there. It wasn’t a very flattering photo, either, his hair flung up around his head in some way that probably was supposed to represent a halo. His eyes were half lidded and mouth caught somewhere between open and closed. From the paint on his face Enjolras knew exactly which show it was taken at and god those were never supposed to survive.

Courfeyrac sighed at his continued frown. “You want my advice? Stand on tiptoes and tear it down yourself, then go make-up to Grantaire. I don’t know what happened, but you made things tense. We’re not supposed to do tense anymore.”

“But--”

“Enjolras.” His friends had some bizarre delusion that Combeferre was the one who was stern with Enjolras. They’d obviously never seen Courfeyrac in action.

“Fine.”

 


End file.
